Who's the Blonde?
by Zephyr
Summary: AU in which vital information made it out in time. Main players: Irina and Vaughn


Author's Notes:  The PG-13 rating is for some language.  

I almost put this as a second chapter to my last fic, "Survived By" – so you could read it that way.  I wasn't sure I wanted to turn that one into an AU though.  I'd planned to continue "Survived By" with accounts of Jack and Irina working together to investigate Sydney's death, but writer's block struck that one just like all my others.  Anyway…

This is an alternate universe piece, picking up about one year into Syd's disappearance. 

            He walked her to her door.  With a chaste kiss, they parted for the evening. He descended her stoop and walked back towards his car.

            "Michael."

Vaughn turned abruptly.  The voice did not come from the stoop; the blonde had gone inside already.  He squinted into the shadows to the side of the house.  The source of the voice crept quickly back into the darkness.  So terrified that he recognized the voice, though unarmed, he hurried after her.

            He continued pursuing her across the street into a park.  The nearest streetlight was conveniently burnt out – or was that shattered glass lying below?  He couldn't pause to tell; the gap between them was growing.

            "Derevko!" he finally called out.  She stopped, resting a hand on the tree next to her, and waited for him.

            "Even as a civilian, Mr. Vaughn," she said softly, as he came into earshot, "I'd have expected a little more discretion."

            "I don't see any benefit to my being discreet in this situation."

            Irina shrugged.

            "Who's the blonde?" she asked, folding her arms in front of her.

            "That's none of your business," he said, lowering his voice.

            "That's too bad, because I thought I had some information that was your business.  But I see" – her eyes crept back in the direction of the house from which they came – "that I may have been mistaken."

            "What are you talking about?"

            Her nonchalance vanished, the fierceness in her eyes suddenly matching his own.

            "Still so obsessed with getting your 'normal life' that you've already pushed my daughter's memory aside?"

            "Fuck you!"

            As he started to advance something black flew at him from her hand.  He caught it at his abdomen.  He held a VHS tape.  The label across the edge revealed only a date: 7/4/04

            "That's a gesture of faith, Mr. Vaughn," she told him carefully, "I trust you not only to keep what you learn from it to yourself, but to return my favor."

            He laughed, the ridiculousness of her statement cooling his anger – for the moment.

            "You said yourself, I'm a civilian now, what kind of favor do you think I can do for you?"

            "You hold in your hand _vital_ information about someone who is – or was – very important to you.  In return I need information about someone important to me.  Though I still have contacts strategically placed enough to find you – I have none deep enough into the CIA to find him.  I assume you still have such ties."

            "What, did you lose a mole?" he sneered.

            "No," she replied, "a husband."

            "What the hell are you talking about?"

            "Go home and watch the tape," she told him serenely, "If you take this to CIA – if you contact the CIA – they'll find I've vanished off the face of the earth.  But if you merely watch, and return alone in twenty-eight minutes, I'll be here to explain further."

            Vaughn stood there, dumbfounded.

            "The twenty-eight minutes starts now, Mr. Vaughn."

Twenty-seven minutes later…

"Your tape is blatantly fake."

"You have the technology to analyze video recordings' authenticity in the privacy of your own home?" 

Irina seemed amused.

"Don't need it.  I knew Sydney.  She'd never kill in cold blood.  She wasn't anything like you."

"If you don't believe she's alive," she said, tilting her head to one side, "Why did you follow my instructions?"

"Because I know better than to underestimate you," he replied, "If you say you'll know if I contact the CIA – that you'll disappear – I won't doubt it."

With the click of a safety, the gun she hadn't seen him bring was up and aimed at her heart.  Irina's hands immediately flew to the air in surrender, a sincere look of fear overtaking her features.

"Please Vaughn," she said, "you have every right to kill me, but I _beg_ you to hear me out first."

"Put your hands on your head and kneel," he told her coldly.

She did so, slowly, but not quietly.

"Jack contacted me, months ago, because he had reached a dead end in his investigation into Sydney's death.  So had I.  So we combined what we knew and started again, with little more luck – "

"How stupid do you think I am?" Vaughn scoffed, "Not only is Sydney alive and assassinating people, but you want me to believe _Jack Bristow_ turned to _you_ for help?  I'm actually not sure which story is more outrageous." 

Irina pressed on, ignoring his ridicule.

"A month ago, Jack contacted me about a surveillance tape he acquired of the same event contained on your tape.  The tape you hold in your hand is a copy I acquired from Russian surveillance from a building across the street.  One of my contacts, a computer prodigy from Belfast, had to clear up the images for me, but I assure you, it's genuine."

"You want to know how much your assurances are worth to me?" he asked, taking a step closer.

"Jack's missing!" she cried out desperately, "I haven't heard from him since that contact.  His house is empty.  I don't know what the hell's happened to him!"

"And now you expect me you give a damn about whether something's happened to Jack?"  Outrage had replaced his mere derision.

Irina exhaled in frustration then, more composed, turned her face up at Vaughn.

"Strange isn't it," she said, "that I, of all people, couldn't come up with more believable lies to tell you?  Unless, for once, I'm not lying."

Vaughn's upper lip twitched, wanting to snarl.  But it was clear her words were making him think, making hesitate.

"Please," she begged further, "This is about Sydney and Jack, not espionage, not Rambaldi – only them."

She could see in his eyes how badly he wanted to pull that trigger.  Afraid of provoking him, she dropped her gaze submissively the hand holding the gun.  It never stirred.  Rather, she watched his free hand reach into his pocket for something.

"I'm making two calls," he said, pulling out his cell phone, "if they don't confirm what you've said, you die."

"If they do?" she asked, realizing too late that it had been too bold.  But he expected no less from her.

"You will not move or speak, until I've finished."

She nodded.

He dialed the first number.  Several moments passed, and he frowned.  He pressed a speed dial for the second number.

"Hey, it's me…fine, look I – no…Eric would you _shut up_ for a second? …Sorry.  I need to ask you something – it's important.  I'm trying to reach Jack…he hasn't answered his phone and his house looks empty…what do you mean?… Is he MIA or what? … I have to know…because I need to get in touch with him…Eric, please, you know I'm not a security risk… _he's where?…Why?"_

Vaughn hadn't taken his eyes of Irina the whole time, but his eyes widened and she could see that he was truly looking at her now, not merely watching as he listened to his friend's voice.

"Yeah," he said into the phone, "unbelievable…I know.  Thank you."

He hung up.

"He was working with you," Vaughn murmured, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

Irina's eyes grew wide with the realization:

"CIA found out."

"The NSC did," he clarified, looking distracted for a moment, "A month ago.  He's in solitary confinement for resisting authority – for working with you, and subsequently refusing to cooperate with questioning about your whereabouts."

Her eyes closed: "Shit."  Slowly, she opened them to look at the man in front of her.

"If you kill me," she said, "you kill a fifteen-month search for Sydney."

For a split-second, he looked as if he had just remembered the gun he had trained on her.  

"You were right before about Sydney," Irina continued, "She wouldn't kill in cold blood – not of her own free will, not if she knew of another way.  Which means, wherever she is, she's in trouble."

"Why should I believe she'd be any better off to have you find her?"

"You're not a fool, Mr. Vaughn, you know she's the piece that doesn't let your image of me quite fit.  You've seen firsthand, that I've always put her safety first."

The young man continued to struggle with indecision.

"You've heard the saying, haven't you?" she asked, "From Shakespeare?  'Better the devil you know...'"

"Go back to Hell," was his only reply.

Irina braced herself for the shot, but his arm suddenly dropped to his side.  Before she knew it, he had turned and was walking away, out of the park, holstering his gun as he went.  She pitied him; with every step, he must have felt the guilt of letting his father's murderer – a mass murder and a terrorist – weigh heavier and heavier upon his soul.  She only hoped that she'd be able to compensate him with the return of his soul mate.  Soon.


End file.
